Valhalla

by Newton Thornburg

  Young Kelleher was not very popular with anyone else either. Tocco kept referring to him as Old Itchy Fingers and Newman, feeling better for a short time, openly and pompously theorized that Rich’s shooting of the Mau Mau was simply an act of displaced patricide, that he had not had the guts to kill his father for “taking Rich’s fantasized place in his sister’s bed,” and had shot the thief instead, knowing that in killing him he ultimately would be killing his father as well. Hearing all this, Rich did not respond at all, just sat where he was, unarmed, looking out the lodge window over Smiley Baggs’ shoulder. And, oddly, his father’s only reaction to all this was to join the pack, calling Rich a “screw-up” and a failure at anything he had ever tried.

  “Whenever I took him hunting, he couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn. Never. Not until tonight.”

  Stone icily told Kelleher to shut up. And he cautioned the others too. He said they had to listen for an attack as well as watch for it, and the next person to “sound off” he personally was going to usher out of the lodge.

  “You can go off by yourself and jabber all you like,” he said. “You can contend with the Mau Mau alone. Understand?”

  Evidently they did, for there was no quarreling after that, at least none he could hear. And in time the silence became almost palpable, as if a lake fog had edged into the lodge. Toward morning a tearing scream somewhere out in the darkness brought them all to quivering attention until Smiley informed them that it was only a screech owl. Stone was standing close to Eve at the time and had watched her look of intense, momentary anxiety give way to a slight, almost pained smile of relief. He smiled back at her. He reached out and touched her shoulder, her hair, and she did not pull away.

  “We’ll be all right,” he said. “We’ll come out of this.”

  She nodded wryly. “Thanks. Now I don’t have to worry.”

  As he moved on, he saw that Annabelle had been watching them. And the look she gave him seemed somehow only a parody of that on his first night at the Point: not quite so amused, not quite so sexy. He walked out onto the porch, where the O’Briens were posted, looking out in opposite directions over the wood parapet that enclosed the porch except for the stairway. Stone had reasoned that if there was an attack, the Mau Mau would try to circle the lodge and come in even from this, the lake side. And that was why he had posted the O’Briens there, country boys who were good shots and hopefully tough enough to hold their ground, even in such an exposed position.

  “See anything?” he asked.

  Harlan nodded. “Sure—the dark and Valhalla.” Vella, he pronounced it.

  “Remember—don’t shoot until they do.” It was Stone’s catechism, something he repeated at every station.

  “If you say so,” Harlan drawled.

  “Be light soon, huh?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Five.”

  “Then it be light soon.”

  At another time Stone might have been more amused by the youth’s hillbilly truculence. Now he did not even give it a thought, but simply moved on to have a similar colloquy with Oral before going back inside. He crossed the main room and went down the short hallway to the Baggses’ bedroom, which was situated at the rear of the lodge, in the corner. Eddie was crouched at one of the room’s windows. At the other, Awesome Dawson appeared to be dozing. Stone nudged him.

  “You better stay awake.”

  Dawson bristled. “I was, damn it! I was awake!”

  Stone did not argue the point. He looked at Eddie. “See anything?”

  The little man was slow to answer as he continued to crouch there, squinting out through the open window. Finally he nodded.

  “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I think I do.”

  Three hours later the Mau Mau still had not made their move. In the beginning, when Eddie first spotted them, they had seemed few in number and more like apparitions than an enemy, black ghosts moving in the blackness. But then, as dawn came and the day brightened, Stone and the others at the windows were able to see them clearly out beyond the barn and in the trees. And it was obvious that the gang was there in full strength, at least twenty of them, and possibly more. For a long time Stone could not figure out what they were doing, because they just seemed to dart from tree to tree and across the open spaces in the barnyard almost as if they were playing a game, seeing which of them could expose himself to fire the longest without being shot. Stone meanwhile had cautioned everyone again not to shoot until he gave the word, so the game, if that was what it was, petered out in time and was followed by a lull that had everyone in the lodge gulping water and licking his lips and running to the bathroom.

  Stone had done everything he knew to do, and yet it obviously was not enough. His ragtag little army did not even seem adequate to the task of waiting. Those who were not crying or shaking looked as if they were about to explode, and he did not doubt that he was one of them himself. Then, mercifully, there was some shooting out at the barn, followed by the sounds of chickens squalling and cows bellowing in fear. After a time, Stone saw smoke begin to rise from a fire behind the barn and it crossed his mind that the gang might already be butchering the cows and plucking hen feathers, settling in for a long morning’s feast.

  But a short time later there was the sound of windows crashing and doors being splintered as members of the gang began to break into the cabins from the rear. Everyone expected the shooting to start then—between the cabins and lodge—but it did not. Instead, all they heard were the continuing sounds of the cabins being ransacked: doors banging, more glass breaking, drawers being pulled out and dumped. Occasionally they would see a figure moving past a window, other times a face peering out at them. But there was no shooting—not until the middle of the morning, when the sunny stillness was rent by a burst of automatic gunfire coming from behind Kelleher’s motor home and ripping into the roof and attic of the lodge. Stone read the gunfire as a test of their will and quickly answered it, joining Eddie and Dawson in sending a prolonged volley into the motor home, blowing out the front windows and grille and tires. Then he broke it off, calling on the others still not to fire until he gave the word. And once again there was silence and waiting—almost an hour of it.

  During that time it was decided not to risk a parley with the Mau Mau but to inform them of the Valhalla alternative by a note instead. So Dawson gave up his post in the corner bedroom to John Kelleher and joined a briefly recovered Newman in trying to write the note, which was to be put in one of the blanket bundles with the food and guns. When the two men were finished, Newman immediately doubled over with cramps and began to moan again. Dawson took the note from him, read it over himself, and then read it aloud to the group.

  “Attention—Commander. Here are the food and guns we promised as payment for the accidental shooting of your soldier. If you would like to have all the food and guns you could use—plus liquor, hot and cold running water, heat, electric lights, music, and even movies—the place where you’ll find it all is directly north of us, across the small bay. It’s that castle-like building on top of that small mountain. It is NOT heavily fortified. There are iron gates and the owner will defend it. But there’s only him and his family (2 men, 3 girls, 1 boy). Be careful, and good luck.—Your friends.”

  No one seemed very enthusiastic about the note, undoubtedly realizing what a squalid point in their lives it represented. But none of them offered any changes or alternatives except Stone, who suggested that Newman crumple the sheet of paper and shove it up his ass.

  “Maybe it’ll stop your diarrhea,” he said.

  The note was thumbtacked to a piece of cardboard and put into one of the bundles, with the guns and food. Then, again, the waiting began.

  Finally, at close to ten o’clock, a tiny figure emerged from behind Tocco’s car, a skinny black boy of twelve or thirteen carrying out in front of him one of the signs that Newman had made. He walked hesitantly, imploringly, as if he expected to be gunned down at any second. But he was not. Ja
gger and Spider, who saw him first from their position at the corner of the lodge, miraculously did not open fire on him. And Stone found himself almost wishing they had, for suddenly it struck him that if the conveniently incapacitated Newman could not go out there with Dawson and deliver the booty, someone else would have to do it for him—and just who would be a more likely candidate than Stone himself? He thought of bowing out because of the Valhalla ploy, reminding them all that he had fought the idea and wanted no part in furthering it. But in the end he said nothing. Dawson, a husband and father, was going out there. He would go too.

  Reluctantly, he gave the Sten gun to Tocco and got his thirty-eight pistol back from Flossie, to whom he had lent it earlier in the night. He stuffed the gun into his belt in back, making sure that his sweatshirt covered the handle. Then, picking up one of the bundles, he followed Dawson out onto the porch. On the way, he was careful not to look at Eve or Annabelle, for fear of what he might see in their eyes. He did not want them confirming how poor he felt his chances were. Unable to look at the O’Briens either, he crossed the porch and went down the stairs, on legs that seemed to be filling with cement. Then, incredibly, he heard himself say to Dawson:

  “You got a family. You wait here. If they don’t shoot, then you follow.”

  Dawson did not argue. Looking just as breathlessly scared as Stone felt, he nodded. Stone then went around to the corner of the lodge and peered down the driveway, where he saw the boy, his brother in suicide. Before moving further into view, he held out the heavy bundle, praying that it would draw fire and drive him back into the lodge. But nothing happened. So he had no choice finally except to step out into the open. Seeing him, the boy grinned with the joy of the reprieved, the living. Stone wet his lips and took a deep breath.

  “You come toward me! Halfway! And I’ll give you this!”

  The boy nodded, still smiling, and started forward. He seemed totally unafraid now, as if he were walking up the aisle of a storefront church. Stone motioned for Dawson to follow and the two men moved reluctantly out past the corner of the lodge, in full view of the cabins and their new inhabitants. As the boy approached, Stone and Dawson put their bundles down. The boy was still smiling.

  “You got food for us? You got candy?” he asked.

  Stone nodded. “You’ll see.”

  Both men began to move back toward the lodge, but in a sideways motion, still keeping their eyes on the boy and the cabins. And suddenly from somewhere back in the trees came a shrilling scream that caused both men to jump. There was laughter then, the joy of kids.

  Feeling both rage and humiliation, Stone trailed Dawson up onto the porch and into the lodge. Ruby, the only one there to greet them, dove into her husband’s arms. Everybody else was at the windows, watching the slow unfolding of their fate. Stone quickly went to the second bedroom and joined the spectators there. Through the window he saw the young black boy and an equally skinny girl waddling back to the cabins with the two bundles. As they disappeared around the back, a quiet optimism began to sweep through the lodge. It would work, they all said. Newman’s plan would work. The Mau Mau would eat what they wanted of the food and then they would probably test the guns—just a little shooting, most likely at the trees or at the lake—and then they would be on their way to Valhalla.

  “And that’s when we get the hell out of here!” Eddie vowed. “That’s when we make ourselves long gone.”

  “Amen to that.”

  “We’re gonna make it.”

  “We ain’t dead yet.”

  Stone said nothing. He got the Sten gun back from Tocco and drifted into the kitchen, where Spider and Jagger were still stationed. Outside he saw the same black boy appear again at the rear of Tocco’s cabin. Only this time he was not carrying one of Newman’s signs, nor was he smiling. His hands were empty and held high above his head as he came slowly forward, moving stiffly again. When he reached the halfway point, he still kept coming, all the way to the lodge.

  Stone had moved closer to the windows. “What is it, boy?” he called. “What do you want now?”

  The kid smiled wanly. “The General, he say he want a meeting. With your general.”

  “Where? Halfway?”

  “No, he say on the porch of that house.” The boy pointed at Tocco’s cabin.

  Stone did not have to think about his answer. “Tell him to go to hell,” he said. “Tell him—”

  But Dawson and Newman were already at Stone’s elbow, pushing past him, taking over.

  “Tell your general okay,” Dawson said to the boy. “Tell him we’d be honored to meet with him.”

  This time Stone refused to go. He said they already had given the Mau Mau too much and he would not take part in any further appeasement. In the end the gang would attack or not attack, he said, and no amount of truckling would change that outcome one bit. But again he was alone. He had thought that Tocco and the O’Briens would have stood with him, but they all seemed to have developed strong new pacifist tendencies—though not to the extent that they wanted to join Dawson in the impending parley. And they were not the only ones to decline. Once again Newman’s health began to fail him. And when Dawson turned to Jagger as an alternative, the huge Negro suddenly became all but invisible, an apparition Jagger seemed unable to see or even hear. Finally it was Spider Dominguez who stepped forward, as unexcited as ever, acting as if he were volunteering for an extra hour of kitchen duty. An almost sexual sense of relief swept through the lodge then, undoubtedly because everyone figured that since neither of their emissaries was white, the Mau Mau would be more kindly disposed toward them. But they had not been with him and Eddie on scouting duty, Stone reminded himself. They had not seen the blinded and mutilated youth, one of the Mau Mau’s own, as black as any of them.

  Stone got out his binoculars and watched through the kitchen window as the meeting took place. As he expected, the “General” did not come out onto the porch to meet Dawson and Spider but remained inside the cabin, speaking from the sanctuary of the darkened front room. Stone adjusted the lenses and suddenly found himself reliving that moment on the low hill looking down at the creek bend where Eve was being assaulted. The same ski outfit—the Day-Glo red stocking cap and jacket, the same insouciant black gaze and drowsy movements—all of it was there again. Next to the General, Stone saw the same light-skinned black who had been more interested in Eve’s suitcase than in her body. And behind them, he was able to pick out four other figures standing in the shadows, all carrying guns.

  But he felt someone at his side now, someone touching his arm.

  “Can I have a look?” Eve asked.

  Rattled, he could not think of a sensible response. “Why?” he said.

  Her look was calm, even grave. “Don’t worry, I already know it might be him. Eddie told me.”

  Stone gave her the binoculars. “It is him,” he said.

  She raised the field glasses and looked, and if there was any slightest change in her expression, Stone failed to catch it. She handed the binoculars back to him.

  “Now do you wish you’d killed him?” she asked.

  Stone did not answer her, not even when Dawson and Spider returned from the parley and reported what the new demand was.

  “He wants Rich Kelleher,” Dawson said. “We’ve got one hour to decide.”

  At first, Stone did not believe that there was a chance they would give up young Kelleher. Oh, he had expected Jagger and Newman to look favorably upon the idea, as a painless way to save their own skins. But certainly no one else would. Yet from the beginning, everyone pressed Dawson and Spider for the exact details of the Mau Mau proposal, and the two emissaries were more than willing to supply them. First, the “General” specifically had said that he wanted to try Rich, not execute him, Dawson explained. The slain youth had been a close friend of the General’s and he had left behind a “loving mama and many comrades.” So the General’s position was that he had no choice except to find out what actually had happened the night befo
re—why Rich Kelleher had killed his friend and comrade.

  In fact, Dawson went on, there had been no mention at all of an execution. Spider then added that the Mau Mau already knew what Rich looked like—“a big, blond honky about twenty years old,” as the surviving thief had described him. So the General said that they would be able to put him on trial ultimately anyway, either now or after “some shooting,” if that was how the people in the lodge wanted it. This last point had a telling effect on the group, convincing them that the real choice was not between giving up Rich Kelleher or not giving him up, but between living or dying.

  Early on it was decided that Rich should not be a party to the deliberations, and he was locked up in the basement root cellar. Stone was so enraged by this added injustice that he had to concentrate on sounding calm and rational. Because most of the group still had to stay at their posts, the only way he could press Rich’s case was by going from one room to the other, like a missionary trying to peddle an idea to people who could think only of food. Newman, Jagger, and a few others followed along, countering his passion with quiet words about practicality and survival.

  Stone soon realized that the only person on his side was Edna Goff and that everyone else either actively supported the “trial” or was keeping silent about it, preferring to let others do their killing for them. He had to listen to orgies of wishful thinking, to the point where even John Kelleher went on record that there was no reason to think that his son would be executed.